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Laundry. Depression. Laundry.

I brought a load of whites up from the basement just now. This might not seem like much to you but trust me, it's significant. I don't do laundry. Not for years. Oh, I'll fold laundry when it's laid before me, sure. And I've put the odd load on when it's vitally necessary, but generally this is my husband's forte. I cook, bake, clean the kitchen, do the bills and most of the grocery shopping. Dear sainted husband separates the whites from the colors, adds the detergent and makes sure the lint trap is cleaned. He keeps us clothed. Just me and him, because the three kids still at home do their own laundry. At least we taught them that much.

I'm depressed. No surprise there, at least not for me. I've battled this monster for years. Have I kept it well hidden from the rest of my world? Perhaps. Or perhaps not as well as I believe I have. I suppose I'm what you could call a functioning depressive? I know there are functioning alcoholics, functioning heroin addicts, functioning Republicans and Democrats. The problem is that you can only function so long with a mental illness, an addiction or the belief that yours is the only candidate to save the world.

I first went on antidepressants after my friend died from colon cancer. We were both young mothers. Our daughters were born days apart, we both gave birth to sons. While I recovered from my c-section, she never did. I began to have panic attacks, I'd run inside my house or frantically pace the dark street in front of my house in the night trying to suck oxygen into my dying self. Each night I was absolutely certain I was dying. Insomnia and small babies do not mix well. My physician at the time put me on Valium. Several times a day. One morning in church I was unable to remember the name of the man speaking from the pulpit. I knew that I knew him. I'd know him since I was a young girl. What was his name? I went home and dumped the remaining bottle of pills down the toilet.

After trying different antidepressants I found one that seemed to help. I stayed on it for a few years then tapered off and stopped. I was still depressed. I went back on antidepressants the first time my daughter tried to kill herself. I've been on them for three more suicide attempts, a few job losses, two moves, deaths of two more friends, a heroin addicted child and so much more. I do not have it worse than others. I do not have it better. It's just life. I threw myself a weekend pity party's after I lost my job last month. It was the only reason I got out of bed most days and poof it was gone. it hurt because I erroneously believed that these people were my friends. I loved my job. I was very, very good at it. Helping homeless students gave me purpose, broke my heart and caused me to count my blessings. They are making my position full time and adding more budgetary duties to it making it a few levels higher in the union. This means I can apply for it, which I am, but that doesn't mean I'll get it. I think perhaps my seven years of telling them this position needed more hours did not please the powers-that -be. But I digress.

Depression. I gots it. Today I am more down than usual. I've taken two hydrocodone due to a failing tooth. It's not helping with my I-don't-feel-like-adulting-today.

Where was I. Oh yeah, laundry. I'm about to fold it.


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A Poem to an Abusive Man

I've been doing a bit of research on abuse, domestic violence and how it usually ends. It's not pretty and it's painful and I hurt every time I read another woman's tale of horror.

Did you know that emotional abuse is as detrimental as physical abuse? And that most emotional abusers continue on to become physical abusers? I didn't. I do now. I found a site where formerly abused women, on the path to recovery from their abusers, have written poems. This one below is one that haunted me.

Thank You

You wooed me with poetry
I bit on the hook
Had I only first read
The name of the book

I would have avoided
The very first page
For pages kept turning
Revealing the rage

The ups were a great high
The ride was a bash
But I rode with my eyes closed
To avoid seeing the crash
I knew it would come soon
But I never knew when
The rage and the leaving
And the path to the end

You had to control things
Determined you would
Emotionally destroying me
Every way that you could

Elderly Abuse

I heard a loud thud the other morning around 3:30 a.m. I checked my monitor but he'd once again turned it to the wall so I was unable to see if he was still in bed. I went downstairs right behind my sweet husband and dad was on the living room floor moaning and holding his head. He'd fallen. Hard.

The first picture is the day of the fall. The second is the day after. The black eye keeps blossoming. He has a gash on his head, hidden by his silver hair and he skinned his shoulder/arm. He's a mess.

Was he using his walker? Nope. 85 year old toddlers cannot be told what to do. Or rather, they can be told what to do, they simply won't comply. Ever. In fact they get down right angry and throw fits. It's not pretty.

His physical therapist came to the house the next day and strongly told him to use his walker EACH TIME HE STOOD UP. Has he? Nope. Nyet. He was very angry with me yesterday because I kept asking him to use his walker. Also, I asked him i…



Back on the horse
Monkey on his back
I see no light
Not even a crack
Back to delusions
Back to the lies
I see through his words
He can't hear my cries

Back into his soul
Back into his veins
The poison he pours
Dark liquid his chains

Backed into a corner
Heartbroken and torn
Back into the needle
The eye of the storm

Back to the wall
Soul bruised torn and broken
Back to my pain
His eyes half open

Back into the horror
Will he ever come back
Back into the nightmare
A needle in a sack

Back into his childhood
I loved him with fury
Looking back on his life
His choices my jury

How did this happen
Back to evil and sin
How can he do this
Lines on his skin

Back to my weeping
Back to my sorrow
My son, my love,
Has no more tomorrows
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